favours
by xakemii
Summary: They owe each other. And after everything, they never seem to be even.


**i**.

Arthur's fifteen when he comes home and finds his sister crying on the couch. She's only thirteen and she's a pain at best, but what's a brother to do when she ends up catapulting herself into his arms?

"Jesus, Luce," he splutters, holding her tentatively. "What happened to you?"

"I...I...he..."

And then he's spinning her around to face him and demanding, "He? Who? Did he...?"

The only answer he gets is a wail and a wet shirt. But later on, after he's tucked her into bed, he hears her whisper a word. A name.

_Eames_.

Everyone knows Eames, though more commonly as: That British Kid. And as it turns out, he isn't very hard to find. So it's no surprise that after school, Arthur's marching towards the bastard and yelling at him like there's no tomorrow.

"Oph..." Eames, on the other hand, seems lost for words when Arthur punches him the stomach. "W...well, that's a charming introduction."

And Eames is looking at him like he's completely lost his marbles, because it's not every day that some kid the year below him gets the guts to talk to him, let alone touch a hair on his head, and look so damn determined doing it.

"Did you touch my sister?" Arthur demands. "My sister, you prick. Did you touch her?"

"Uh..."

"My sister!"

"If you don't mind me asking; who's your sister?"

Arthur's expression switches from furious to incredulous. Because really; how many girls has this guy messed with recently? "Lucy. Her name's Lucy."

Recognition. At last.

"I don't make a habit of touching little girls," Eames replies, sounding amused if anything. "She's...what? Eleven?"

"Thirteen," Arthur snaps. And then, just in case (because Eames can't be telling the truth, otherwise Lucy wouldn't have been crying like that, right?) he throws one more punch before turning his back on the older teen.

Arthur doesn't expect to talk to Eames again.

**ii**.

Arthur's eighteen when he comes home from a friend's house to find his mother crying on the couch. She doesn't even look up when he comes in and almost has a heart attack when he places his hand on her shoulder, inquiring as to what's wrong.

"It's Lucy," she chokes out. "She's...she's...oh god, _Arthur_."

For the moment, he just rubs his mother's back.

Later, a police officer explains to him that Lucy was hit by a drunk driver.

After the funeral, Arthur applies to a university in France.

His mother's half-way crazy and he hasn't got anything else to stick around for, so he figures; why the hell not?

**iii**.

Arthur's twenty-three when he comes back to his apartment and finds his answer machine beeping.

"Dom and I think you'll be perfect for the job, Arthur. Call me back if you want the details."

Dream work isn't like anything he's ever imagined before and he finds it exhilarating. Before long, the three of them are a team and according to the rest of the dreaming community, they've got the potential to be the best.

"You're surprisingly good at that," Cobb says warily.

Arthur shrugs, putting his gun away. "I wouldn't be any use to you if I weren't."

"That's true."

Mal, however, frowns. "Arthur, you're practically the best Point Man in the business. Being able to shoot is just a bonus, I assure you."

Even so, Arthur starts going to the gym. He picks up Chinese and French and buys a three-piece suit. He wants to be the best and as far as he's concerned, he will be.

By now, as far as the government and internet is concerned, Lucy's older brother never existed.

**iv**.

Arthur's twenty-four when he goes to Cobb's house and almost drops his briefcase when he enters the living room.

"Eames?"

Cobb, oblivious to the the distaste in Arthur's voice, looks immensely pleased. "You didn't tell me you knew Arthur, Eames."

"Can't say I realised that you meant _this _Arthur," Eames chirps, pushing himself off the couch and thrusting his hand in Arthur's direction. "It's good to see you again."

"I wish I could say that same."

When Arthur doesn't make a move to shake his hand, Eames says hesitantly, "I never saw after...you know, Lu—"

"—yes, well, I didn't stick around long."

"You know, I never did tou—"

"—I'm sure you didn't." Arthur tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, inwardly cursing. He doesn't want, nor does he need, to have this conversation. "It's all in the past, Mr. Eames. Let's move on to the job, shall we?"

Later, Mal corners him and says gently, "I can get Dom to fire Eames, if you'd like. And for goodness sake, don't give me that look. It's obvious you don't want him anywhere near you. Just say the word and he's out, okay?"

Arthur shakes his head. "It's all in the past."

He's well aware that Mal's bound to think the two of them have had some torrid love affair, but somehow, he can't bring himself to care. What does it matter? So long as they don't know of Lucy, it's okay.

Because Lucy is his only _true_ weakness. And in this industry, your weaknesses will kill you.

**v**.

It's one week later when Arthur's thrown against a wall, Eames demanding answers from him.

"What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem."

Because honestly, it wasn't his fault that the job hadn't gone smoothly. Getting Eames out of the dream seemed like a good idea at the time. And shooting him? Well, it was an efficient way to get that done; politeness be damned.

"Is this about Lucy? Because I swear, I never touched her. And honestly, I'm not sure why you ever thought I did."

"I _know_. Christ, I know." After pushing Eames away, Arthur rubs his eyes. "And you shouldn't mention Lucy. Mal and Cobb might start asking questions."

Eames squints. "What's wrong with that? They're your team, aren't they?"

"We're _co-workers_," Arthur hisses. "They don't need to know about her or, for that matter, any other personal matters of mine—our past at school included."

"What past?" Eames scoffs in return. "You punched me in the stomach and then accused me of molesting your sister. That doesn't count as a past, darling."

"...well, I suppose."

"So long as we're clear. Although, darling, you're going to owe me for this job. And a little warning before you blast my head off next time would be appreciated."

And since the job's finished, Arthur pushes past Eames, grabs his papers and disappears into the city.

Arthur rather thinks that Eames owes him for making his baby sister cry.

**vi**.

Arthur's twenty-five when Mal dies.

He's also twenty-five when his mother dies, but in his opinion, no one needs to know about that. It's been seven years since he last saw her and when he goes to her funeral, he's just another face in the crowd; no one recognises him now.

Mal's funeral, in a way, is a much larger ordeal. There's roses everywhere and Cobb's crying all over the place. The kids are running and screaming and don't really understand anything at all. Mal's friends, on the other hand, are sobbing quietly by the coffin.

Arthur stands silently at the back of the room.

"You knew her well, didn't you?"

"Suppose so," Arthur replies evenly. "I didn't expect you to be here."

Eames shrugs. "Wanted to see how you were holding up."

"I'm better off than Cobb."

"I wasn't referring to _Mal's_ death." He casts the younger man a sideways glance. "Honestly, Arthur. Why are you here?"

"Mal was my friend. I'm grieving."

"But your mother just died!" Eames exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. "I'm sure Mal would've understood. It's not as if you have to go to someone's funeral to miss them."

Much to Arthur's dismay, Eames' louder-than-most voice is causing a scene and one by one, faces in the crowd are turning to face them. More importantly, Eames' louder-than-most voice has caught the attention of Cobb, who's now storming over to him and he's looking _almost _as furious as Arthur feels.

"Your mother?"

Arthur winces at Cobb's accusatory tone and mutters, "Her funeral was yesterday. Not that it's any of your business."

"Of course it's my business," Cobb snaps back, rubbing his temples in annoyance. After a few moments, he dismissed the Point Man with a flick of his hand. "For goodness sake, go away. And take Eames with you. _Jesus_."

"Cobb, you're being ridiculous."

"_Go_."

A few minutes later, Arthur's curled up on his couch, making his way through a tub of ice cream. Eames, satisfied with his work, is about to leave. His hand is on the doorknob when he hears a small, "Thank you for getting me out of there."

His satisfaction turns to pride. A job well done, it seems.

"Any time, Arthur. Any time."

**vii**.

It's only a month later when Arthur wakes at three in the morning, courtesy of Eames.

"You owe me a favour."

Arthur rubs his eyes, fighting the urge to throw his phone against the wall and go back to sleep.

"Arthur? Are you there?"

"Of course I'm here, you idiot," Arthur bites into the phone. Because really, it's three in the morning. In his opinion, he has every right to be a little bit annoyed. "And I don't owe you any favours."

Because _that _didn't count. It didn't. And why would Eames remember that, anyway?

"Yeah, you do."

Sighing, Arthur pulls himself up and rests against the headboard. "What do you _want_, Eames?"

"A favour."

"A favour that I don't owe you, remember?"

"You do. I'll see you in two days, Arthur."

"Wait, what? You haven't even told me where you ar—"

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

**viii**.

Two days later, Arthur's having trouble remembering why he bothered in the first place. Really. Who the fuck takes a job in _New Zealand _of all places?

It's wet. It's cold. It's miserable.

Not to mention the architect for the job is probably the most psychotic man he's ever met.

"Aren't you glad you joined me out here, darling?"

Arthur frowns, furrowing his brows. "You're going to owe me a favour after this. But for now, shut up, Mr. Eames."

Eames laughs in reply. "Anything for you, Arthur. Anything for you."

**ix**.

Eventually, the two lose track of who owes who favours. But it's fair enough to say that they never seem to be even.

And then Eames rings, saying, "Arthur, darling, I need to call in on one of those favours you owe me."

And as always, Arthur books the next plane and is there before two days are up.

Except this time, the job really does hit the fan. The architect double crosses them, the chemist ends up dead in a dirty alley and by the time Eames and Arthur have figured out what's happened, the extractor has managed to shoot Arthur in the shoulder and left them both to clean up the mess.

In typical fashion, Eames has whipped off his shirt and is frantically trying to press down on Arthur's wound while Arthur scurries around the building, throwing papers and folders into the centre of the room and half-heartedly trying to shoo Eames away from him.

"For Christ sake, just _sit down_," Eames finally says, placing two firm hands on Arthur's hips and forcing him to sit on a now cleared desk. "You're bleeding everywhere."

"We'll both be dead if we don't leave soon." However, Arthur makes no move to shift and instead rummages through his pockets. He presents a silver lighter to Eames and says, "Once you've finished on my shoulder, we'll have to torch the building and get out of here."

Grimacing, he adds, "Although, it's probably best if we torch the place, get out of here, and _then _have a look at my shoulder, if that's all the same to you, Eames."

They've burnt the building to the ground and are parting ways at the airport when Arthur turns and mutters, "After that, I don't believe I owe you any more favours. In fact, I think we can call it even."

And Eames nods and agrees, only because there doesn't seem to be another option.

**x**.

He really doesn't expect to hear from Eames again.

"Arthur!"

"Yes?"

"I didn't think you'd pick up," Eames chirps through the phone. "Look, I was wondering how you're holding up."

"You remembered the date?" Arthur asks evasively.

"...yes."

"Why?"

He can practically _hear_ Eames rubbing the back of his neck over the phone line.

"Not important. What is important is how you're faring."

Arthur sighs, brushing the dirt off his trousers and standing. The birds are singing and flowers are blossoming. All in all, it's all far too cheerful to be a cemetery.

"I've been talking to Lucy," Arthur says quietly, his eyes trained on the gravestone in front of him. He nudges a garland of daisies into the centre with his foot and continues, "I was just about to leave, actually."

He steals a final look and then quickly turns, scurrying through the endless graves and rows of flowerbeds. He ends up with one hand deep in his pocket and leaning against a lamppost, wondering where he'd left his car in the parking lot.

"So you're still at the cemetery?"

Now striding towards to his car and flashing his keys, Arthur pauses. "Yes. Why?"

"Thing is, I've got a job here." For the first time in which Arthur has known him, Eames seems hesitant as he speaks. "...and if you were interested, I'm about two blocks away from you."

"Another favour?" Arthur questions, sliding into the driver's seat. "I thought we were even."

A silence.

"It wouldn't be a favour."

Another silence.

"Give me the address," Arthur says finally, pulling himself out of his car and slamming the door. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

And then, after he's scribbled the building name on the palm of his hand, Arthur asks, "How many favours do I actually owe you?"

"In the end?" Eames replies, laughing. "None. Reckon I owe you about half a dozen though."

Arthur hums. Only half a dozen?

"You know it wasn't only about favours, Arthur?" And again, for some reason that Arthur can't pinpoint, Eames sounds genuinely worried. "You know I didn't go to all those places because I owed you a favour? Or because I wanted favours, for that matter."

"I know."

Because he figures it wasn't always about Lucy or Mal or favours—that Eames didn't always want something from Arthur. It's a first for Arthur, because he's spent all his life trying to level the playing field.

But now they're even. There's nothing to prove. Nothing to gain. Nothing to lose.

And somewhere between midnight calls and last minute flight tickets, Arthur has always wondered if perhaps, in the very end, Lucy wouldn't be his _only _weakness.


End file.
